


Deer Among Cattle

by queenlua



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23832982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenlua/pseuds/queenlua
Summary: “Alright, boy.  So who are you really?”Claude tilted his head, a whisper of a smile on his face, as though he’d just missed a joke that everyone else was laughing at.  “Come again?”Judith didn’t bother repeating herself.  He’d heard her.  “It’s a clever idea,” she continued.  “You see the old man needs an heir.  So you waltz in, a charming, well-spoken nobody, and you tell him you’re the one.  It wouldn’t work on Oswald if he were younger, but he’s gotten sentimental in his old age, and more than a little desperate, so of course he wants to believe you."***Judith is suspicious of the new Riegan heir.
Relationships: Judith von Daphnel & Claude von Riegan
Comments: 61
Kudos: 253





	Deer Among Cattle

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically a sequel to ["The Signet of His Lords"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23294536), but can be read as a standalone story.

Entering the archery tournament was Claude’s idea.

Duke Oswald—his grandfather—had wanted a more cautious introduction to Leicester high society. Claude’s appearance would be a great shock, he had said. Better to introduce him to a few trusted allies at a time. Better to let news spread slowly, so as not to offend. Best to push off the Roundtable vote for the line of succession as long as possible.

But what Claude heard was: show them you’re afraid. Let rumors and hearsay control the story, instead of you. Hide and skulk until the last moment and just pray it works out in the end.

No, that wouldn’t do at all.

So Claude wheedled and coaxed. “Archery’s kind of my whole thing,” he said. “No better chance for me to impress all the ladies, right?” he tried—but Oswald didn’t laugh. Bit of a stale joke, anyway, Claude guessed.

So Claude stuck to what he knew. He invited Oswald to watch him practice. He had Oswald watch him hit twenty-four bullseyes out of twenty-five. He shot an apple from a tree, shot an apple tossed up into the air, shot a lantern-rope clean in half. “C’mon, you _can’t_ let me have all this talent go to waste.”

But Oswald’s eyes looked faraway. They often looked that way, Claude had noticed, his first week in Riegan. His mother had warned him a dozen times, a dozen ways, before he left: Oswald’s a stubborn mule, Oswald’s a hard man, Oswald’s a stern old bastard. And though he had the broad shoulders and the creased forehead of a man who’d dealt his share of trouble, he didn’t seem like any of those things to Claude. He just seemed lost.

“Give me a chance,” Claude said.

“It’s only that...” Oswald started, and trailed off.

Claude sucked in a breath and gathered his nerve. Then he said the thing that Oswald had oh-so-carefully avoided talking about, ever since Claude had arrived:

“You’re afraid someone will try and kill me off like they killed your son.”

Oswald’s eyes flashed indignant—but only for a moment. Then they were faraway again. “We don’t know that’s what happened.”

“Don’t we, though?”

Oswald didn’t answer. He _hmm_ ed and looked away.

Gods. Claude _wished_ this man were a stubborn mule. He knew how to deal with someone like that; he’d fought with men like that his whole life. But how did you argue with a man who only ever looked _past_ you, always looking for the ghost of the person you had replaced? How did you soothe the fear of fire, in a man who’d been twice burned? How could you pull someone back, when they seemed to already have half a foot in the grave?

Claude stepped closer, close enough that Oswald was forced to look at him again. “A giant party with a few hundred eyewitnesses is about as safe as I’ll ever be,” he pressed. “Your guards can protect me here. I can protect _myself_ here. Trust me on this.”

Oswald blinked, and _there_ —he was _present_ , at least, and staring back at Claude. The silence stretched between them—and then, Oswald started to laugh.

Claude took a step back, a little sideswept. He hadn’t heard Oswald laugh once in the entire month he’d been here. And it wasn’t just a chuckle; Oswald was doubled over and shaking with it.

“What?” Claude asked at last. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes,” Oswald said, smiling, still gasping a little between laughs. “Yes, fine. You’re right, and you’ll have your tournament debut. It’s just that...” His eyes looked a little misty, maybe just from the laughter. “You reminded me of your mother, for a minute. She won this tournament, you know, when she was about your age.”

Ah. Well.

Claude didn’t quite know what to say to that. This man was still a stranger, as kind as he’d been these past few weeks. And his mother, he was slowly realizing, may have been a stranger to him his whole life.

“Well,” Claude said, and cleared his throat. “Well, that’ll be something for me to live up to, then.”

* * *

“I can’t believe this,” Count Gloucester muttered, for the fourth time in as many minutes. “What in heavens could Oswald be _thinking_?” 

Judith Daphnel held her tongue, only because she didn’t want to admit that, for once, she actually _agreed_ with Gloucester about something.

Instead, she sipped her tankard of warm ale, which paired so nicely with the crisp autumn air, and leaned back into her plush, cushioned seat. Riegan’s private sporting stadium had set these box seats aside for nobility of particular note, and while Judith didn’t much stand on ceremony, she wasn’t getting any younger, and she took full advantage of the chance to rest her feet and her back. Plus, the view was unparalleled—she was so close to the field she could count the arrows in the archers’ quills.

The Count, meanwhile, carried on with his blustering. “The man has left the line of succession in question for half a year, he’s _refused_ to answer any inquiries on the matter, and then when we’re all gathered here for the Horsebow Festival, he just introduces some child I’ve never seen before as _Claude von Riegan_?”

“Hey, Oswald didn’t do any introducing. That good fellow there did,” Judith said, tipping her drink in the direction of the tournament’s announcer.

Gloucester sighed. “You know what I meant.”

Judith tipped her glass toward the count: “Want some? You look like you could use a stiff drink.”

Gloucester glowered, and waved the proferred drink away. “Why didn’t he introduce this child _properly_? Bring him to the Roundtable. Have _us_ decide whether he’s a worthy successor. Have a proper conversation with him, first.”

“I imagine he wants to give us time to warm up to him. He’s hoping we’ll get all chummy and forget to care about his peerage.”

Gloucester kept on grumbling, but Judith was only half-listening. The boy of the hour was up at the shooting line, mister Claude von Riegan himself, dressed in bright red silks and golden trim, just a _hair_ shy of gaudy, by Judith’s reckoning. She leaned forward in her seat, watching for—something, she wasn’t sure. A sign, a slip-up, some mistake that might hint at whence he’d come. All she saw, however, was a good stance, and passably good form.

Beside her, Gloucester _harumphed_ heavily.

During Claude’s first shot, for some reason, he jerked his bow down right as he loosed the string, and the arrow whiffed entirely, falling three feet short of its target. A few mocking jeers rose from the crowd.

Judith watched the boy’s expression closely, and he didn’t look shaken at all. Strange.

Then he loosed his second arrow, and that one struck decently. The third one struck dead center, and the fourth, dead-center of the previous one, cracking it clean down the middle.

The crowd’s jeers turned into some scattered, astonished gasps, then to a low rumble of applause. Nothing a crowd loves better than a comeback—Gloucester notwithstanding, of course, who was red-faced and scowling. If looks could kill, that kid would be dead in an instant, Judith thought.

Then, as the rangemen totaled up the score at the end of the round, Judith wound up smiling despite herself. Little Claude had earned just _barely_ enough points to squeak into the next round. So that first whiff must’ve been on purpose. Smartass.

“Duke Oswald didn’t tell you anything, did he?” Gloucester pressed, as the rangemen reset the targets. “About where this _child_ came from?”

“No,” Judith said, keeping her voice very deliberately flat. For months Judith had been telling Duke Oswald: reach out to the Caius branch of the family. Make amends, invite them in, adopt one of their better sons. They may not have a crest in their blood but it’d be a hell of a lot better than nothing. Better than uncertainty. Better than Gloucester getting any more ideas than he already had.

But Oswald—Oswald, the infamous bulldog, the hard-nosed hard-arguing bastard—Oswald kept turning selectively deaf whenever she brought up the topic. She’d repeat herself twice, thrice, _answer me, damn you_ —and if she pressed hard enough, she could bring out something _like_ his usual brusqueness. But it was all twisted around, turned strange and irrational, where usually Oswald been the savage, stony voice of reason. _Don’t bother me with nonsense,_ he’d say, in answer to something that was anything but. _Things will work out in the end,_ he’d say, on the basis of absolutely _nothing._

Judith rankled to hear it. This was the man who’d run the Roundtable by tooth and claw for the better part of a decade, and the man who’d squashed the last Kent rebellion with half the men anyone thought possible. He _knew_ better than this. _Don’t bother me with nonsense._ She’d show him _nonsense._

Once, only once, Judith pressed far enough to reach him—but then, she almost wished that she hadn’t.

“Oswald, damn it all, you’re not going to live forever, and if you leave a damned succession mess on my hands, the blood that’s spilt is going to be _your_ fault—”

“I wish Tiana were here,” he had said. His eyes looked faraway. _He_ looked faraway, like half of him had given up the ghost alongside his son, and Judith had to bite her lip.

 _Yes,_ Judith wanted to snarl, _I wish Tiana were here, too._ Or, rather—she wished that Tiana _had been_ here. At sixteen, the two of them had been like sisters. They’d sparred and dueled together until they were too tired to hold their swords straight. They’d snuck into Derdriu to gawk at the crowds and go dancing and kick up a fuss whenever they could give their guards the slip. Once, on a full-moon night, when they were still little enough to put too much stock in old rituals, they’d pricked their fingers and mixed the droplets of blood together, and then into the earth, and felt gloriously whole. Their ferocious friendship had drawn the Daphnel and Riegan houses close together through the sheer gravity of it. They had been supposed to grow up together, enter court together, scheme their way to the top of the Alliance, travel and do battle and lead glorious, grandiose lives—

But all that was dashed the night Tiana left Leicester completely. No note. No trail. Not so much as a _hint_ of her whereabouts.

Judith had stopped blaming Oswald, eventually. Judith stopped blaming herself, much later than that. Now, the space-where-Tiana-should’ve-been was like the skin over a healed scar—clean, but thin, and best not pressed too hard.

“Stay focused, Oswald,” Judith had snapped, and then Oswald had gotten all mulish again, and they hadn’t talked since then.

Which apparently was plenty enough time for him to get taken in by _this_ kid, who definitely wasn’t a Caius, or a von Riegan, or anyone else she knew.

Speaking of which. It was Claude’s turn at the firing line again. Final around.

The kid stretched hugely, taking his time to settle into a proper stance, and the crowd roared all the while. Everyone loves a dark horse, after all. Claude even turned to wink at the crowd, drawing out a few deafening wolf-whistles from them, as he spun his arrow around in his hand. _Showboater,_ Judith thought, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

Then, just as he nocked the bow and drew the string back, a glint shone in the air above him. Though it was only for an instant, Judith _swore_ she saw that great Riegan crescent-moon sign, gleaming gold and bright—and then his arrow flew.

“Did you... did you _see_ that...?!” Gloucester sputtered beside her.

“Of course I did.”

“It’s not p-p-possible. It’s simply not _possible_.”

“I agree,” Judith said coolly.

“Then... then _how?”_

Judith shrugged. “I’m no gremory, but I’ve a few in my employ. I’m sure they would have some ideas.”

Gloucester stroked his chin, considering. “So you think it’s some sort of magic? But I’ve never anything of the sort before.”

Judith shrugged. “There just hasn’t been enough profit in it before, probably.”

Around them, the crowd was starting to filter out. Claude had won the whole tournament, naturally, and everyone was in a great rush to either claim their winnings, or soothe their losses with another pint of ale. Judith looked down at her own tankard—empty. Time for her to move along, too.

“You’ll talk to Oswald, won’t you?” Gloucester called as she turned to leave, his voice so painfully earnest that Judith cringed to hear it. “He _listens_ to you, Judith.”

“I’ll be talking to someone, sure,” she said, waving her hand without bothering to look at him. “Take care, Gloucester. Enjoy the festival.”

* * *

The old equipment shed on the south end of the archery field was the only part of Riegan’s manor that wasn’t gilt to gleaming. Judith and Tiana had spent hours there, as kids. Their minders had a habit of forgetting the place existed, so they could give them the slip and stay hidden for hours. They got up to all sorts of nonsense there—whittling, when they were very little, and too young to be wielding knives. Bowmaking, later on, long before their instructors had said they were properly ready for the task. (Judith’s first bow had exploded in her face on the very first draw; Tiana had laughed so hard she cried. Probably the _only_ time Judith ever saw her cry.)

There was a new equipment shed, now, a finer one, but Oswald had never quite gotten around to tearing the old one down. So it stood, through all these years: termite-bitten and listing badly to one side, but still whole.

She found Claude there now—sitting in some rickety old chair, crouched over his bow, alone.

Judith watched him through a window. He cradled that bow as though it were a child: he was running a loose cotton cloth over its length, but his touch was delicate, deft and delicate. He lifted the bow briefly, into the dusty half-light, to squint at it—maybe he thought he’d cracked it during the tournament? Judith didn’t see how; his form had been flawless.

Anyway. He was alone, which was the important thing.

Judith threw the shed door open, loud enough to startle, though Claude didn’t. He only looked up at her after he’d finished running the cloth down the last length of the bow’s limb.

“Alright, boy. So who are you really?”

Claude tilted his head, a whisper of a smile on his face, as though he’d just missed a joke that everyone else was laughing at. “Come again?”

She didn’t bother repeating herself. He’d heard her. She stepped closer, and the light from a nearby window poured over her face. “It’s a clever idea,” she continued. “You see the old man needs an heir. So you waltz in, a charming, well-spoken nobody, and you tell him you’re the one. It wouldn’t work on Oswald if he were younger, but he’s gotten sentimental in his old age, and more than a little desperate, so of course he wants to believe you. The only thing I can’t figure out,” she muttered, eying his shoulder, “is how you managed the Crest fakery. It’s quite convincing.”

Claude’s hand drifted to his right shoulder, idly, as though trying to protect it. Then he seemed to catch himself, pulling his hand away and laughing. “That sounds like an awful lot of work.”

Judith nodded: “It is. Might be worth it, though, depending on what you want.”

“And what is it you think I want?”

He looked so calm, Judith thought. Any two-bit shyster would be sweating by now. So this boy must be something more.

“Money, maybe,” Judith guessed with a shrug. “Oswald’s got plenty of it. But there’s less risky ways to earn coin. Maybe you’re just wanting to show off how clever you are, in which case—well done. House Daphnel could use more clever minds. We’ve coffers deep enough, and it’ll spare you from getting in over your head when it comes time to actually _be_ the duke.”

Claude stared for a long moment, uncomprehending—then barked with laughter. “Oh, _that’s_ what this is. You’re trying to buy me out.”

“I’m offering you a _way_ out,” she corrected. “A lucrative one. Which I suspect you’ll want, sooner or later.”

But Claude was only half paying attention to her now. He’d turned back to the bow on his lap, and opened up a little tin of beeswax next to him. He dipped his fingers in the tin, and ran them down the length of the bowstring, once, twice. He looked the bow over one last time, and finally hung it on the rack on the far side of the shed.

When he finally finished, he looked surprised that Judith was still there. “I’m right where I need to be, I think,” he said with a smile. “But thanks for the interest, ah... what was your name again?”

“Judith.”

Something lit in Claude’s eyes at that. “Judith... Daphnel?”

She nodded. “The very same.”

“Judith Daphnel,” he repeated, “that’s...” He trailed off, brow furrowed, eyes appraising. Then, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” And with a little bow and a nod, he walked right back toward the door, into the golden hour’s light: “Hope you enjoy the rest of the tournament, Judith Daphnel.”

* * *

Of course the Horsebow Festival wasn’t _just_ the tournament. Duke Riegan could hardly draw every noble of note in the alliance with nothing but a bit of archery and jousting. There was the feast, the grand ball, the hundred-odd craftsmen and jewelers and metalworkers peddling their wares, the minstrels, the fire eaters, the acrobats, the fireworks at full dark, and the drinks, endless and free-flowing all through the day and night.

Judith skipped the jousting, and mostly hovered near the craftsmen and away from the masses. She didn’t much like crowds, and unfortunately, she was obligated to another one that very evening—the Horsebow Feast, with all the other noble families. Better to save her energy until then.

When the sun fell and Judith entered the Riegan manor, the Great Hall was set up in the Adrestian style, with ornate golden tapestries slung over the walls. Apparently, assigned seating and properly-plated meals were no longer considered fashionable. Instead of the usual long table in the center of the room, there were two dozen little ones, each of them piled high with little skewered meats and stuffed eggs and fried breads and exotic fruits. Not enough food at any one spot for a solid meal; you were meant to wander.

Judith didn’t care for it for this little dining trend—it felt rabbitish, drifting here and there, never sitting down for a proper conversation.

Claude von Riegan, however, seemed to be taking to it splendidly.

From afar, she saw the boy flitting through the crowd. Judith snatched up a little plate of cheeses and watched as he smiled at the Count and Countesses Gloucester, watched as he said some sweet nothings to one of the Caius daughters, and she blushed and giggled. When he approached the Margrave Edmund, however, Judith raised an eyebrow and sidled closer. Edmund was whip-smart and tough as stone; _this_ should be interesting to overhear—

“Edmund, Edmund... that sounds familiar for some reason. You’re not the one who wrote that _Mathematics for Merchants_ book, are you?”

“That would be my nephew,” the Margrave said, with a proud little smile. “Though I did advise him on some of the finer points of the arithmetic therein.”

“Fascinating. Was it your idea was to use the Almyran numeral system for notation, then?”

“Well, of course that’s been the case in formal math texts for quite some time, but you’re right that it’s not nearly as common among the merchants. Hopefully that book made it a little more common, though; it’s high time to move past abacuses and such. Makes for far easier bookkeeping.” He blinked owlishly. “Are you a mathematician, Claude?”

“Oh, only on the weekends,” Claude laughed, “but I did write out proofs for a couple of the tricks in that book—I thought the whole casting-out-the-nines thing for checking multiplication errors was really clever.”

“Really? I’d be curious for a sketch of that proof, if you’ve got it in mind...”

 _You’ve got some brown on your nose, boy,_ Judith was tempted to say, but she held her tongue. Soon enough Duke Goneril pulled her aside, babbling on about his son’s recent victory over Nader, and Judith murmured all the right praises and compliments. Then she was bound to chat with some of the minor southern lords. Occasionally, she stole glances at the Riegan boy—and he clung to Edmund’s side the whole rest evening, listening to the margrave natter on and on.

What could _possibly_ be so fascinating as all that?

When the evening grew late and the servants started clearing the desserts away, Judith sidled closer one last time—

“...I’ll concede, Claude,” the Margrave was saying, “that perhaps the balance of trade isn’t _quite_ so winner-take-all as Lowry claims in his book, but eliminating tariffs _altogether_ would sacrifice Leicester’s key advantage in international trade.”

“Okay, let’s think about it a different way. Suppose you only treat _maritime_ tariffs as a separate category, and make those a bit less onerous—I’ll bet you could bolster some real innovations in shipmaking, and they’d pay for themselves quick enough...”

Edmund, she knew how Edmund loved to carry on about all his formulas and theories for the balance of trade and deficits and other such tedium. The mystery was how the _kid_ could feign interest in the topic for two hours straight.

“You see it too, don’t you?”

Judith almost jumped. Countess Ordelia had somehow snuck up behind her. Judith wasn’t sure how—in her scarlet furs and bright jewels, she’d been the most eye-catching person in the room all night.

“You’re talking about the new heir, right?”

“ _Presumptive_ heir,” Ordelia sniffed. “If he thinks he can just snake his way into the Alliance just by slithering next to Edmund and Riegan and hissing all the right words, then he’ll find out how Ordelia deals with _snakes_ at the next Roundtable.”

That was no idle threat—the Countess _did_ hold her house’s seat at the Roundtable. Judith raised an eyebrow. “You’re certainly worked up.”

Ordelia glowered. “The eastern lords have been far too heavy-handed with their power lately and you know it, Judith. You should know that better than _anyone_ , actually.”

Judith’s face hardened. She didn’t care to be reminded of Daphnel’s recent fall from the Roundtable’s good graces.

Ordelia winced sympathetically. “Apologies. I only meant to say—this child pops out of nowhere, and he can’t even be bothered to speak to Ordelia or Gloucester or Curan? Could his ill intent be any more apparent?”

“Today’s the first time _anyone_ has met him, you know. Maybe he simply hasn’t gotten around to you yet.”

“Don’t be blind, Judith. Or wait and see—this time next month, it’ll be obvious, mark my words.”

In lieu of an answer, Judith took another pointed sip of her wine. And Ordelia, her anger apparently spent, whirled and stormed off into the night.

* * *

Judith was one of the last to leave the Riegan manor, the next morning. Her territory was close, so there wasn’t any rush to get onto the road, and besides, she wanted a few parting words with the little presumptive heir.

While the other nobles dithered over breakfast and gossiped in the foyer, Judith slipped out a back door and made her way to the playing-fields. Anyone who made shooting look that easy, Judith figured, must practice like a fiend. And sure enough, she found Claude right where she expected—back by that old equipment shed, all fitted out, quiver slung over his shoulder and bow polished to gleaming. He was doing that trick from yesterday, the one where he spun his arrow around in his hand, and Judith scowled at a sudden memory—Tiana had been fond of that little trick, too.

 _Tiana is dead_ , she thought to herself, a little too fiercely.

Then Judith surveyed the field: no one else was around, this early in the morning, right after a festival. So she called out to him: “So, boy—it is money you’re after, then?”

Claude turned and smiled. “Judith, lovely to see you—”

“ _Lady_ Judith to you.”

“Lady Judith,” Claude agreed, with a little bow. “Lovely to see you. What did you say, again?”

Judith strode close, then closer, close enough that Claude backpedaled a step. “All those other nobles at the banquet and you spent the whole night talking Edmund’s ear off. Countess Ordelia was staring daggers at you by the end.” Judith crossed her arms, appraising. “I can see why you’d think to hitch your wagon to Edmund’s. His fortunes are on the rise. If that trade deal with Sreng goes through, it’ll double his coffers inside three years. It’s quite canny of you.”

Claude opened his mouth to protest—then closed it. His face was strained, but not with an _I’ve-been-found-out look._ This was something more pensive and troubled.

“I wasn’t trying to favor Edmund,” Claude murmured after a moment, his voice very quiet. “I wasn’t trying to snub anybody. I just got carried away, I guess.”

Judith arched an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you just so _loved_ talking about maritime taxation laws?”

“It’s interesting,” he said, and he even looked a little wounded. Saints.

“I listened in, for a bit,” Judith said at length, scornful. “Heard nothing but numbers.”

“I mean, it’s not just numbers, right?” Claude was smiling now. “It’s people underneath. Numbers are just a way of talking about them.”

What a supremely un-Leicester sentiment. Judith tilted her head. “Where did you say you were from, again?”

“I didn’t.”

Judith gave an impatient little gesture: _go on._

Claude patiently smiled back and said nothing.

So Judith rolled her eyes and turned to leave. “House Daphnel would serve your ends better,” she called over her shoulder. “Think on that before Edmund hooks his claws in too deep.”

“Hey, Judith,” Claude called, when she’d nearly reached the edge of the field. “ _Lady_ Judith, I meant.”

She turned around.

“Did I really, um.” He looked uncertain, a thing Judith only noticed because she’d never seen him anything but certain before. “Did I really put Countess Ordelia off?”

What an odd question.

If he was just trying to get named as heir, Ordelia was hardly going to be his biggest obstacle. If he wanted to cozy up to Edmund, he didn’t need Ordelia at all. And if his aim was something else... well, then Judith hadn’t put together what it was, which meant she _definitely_ shouldn’t help him.

But, Goddess help her, he just looked so _earnest._

“She’s used to catching a little more notice than that, is all,” she said at last. “Pay her a visit sometime if you’re so worried. She’s got quite the extensive tea collection. She wouldn’t mind the excuse to show off, I’d think.”

* * *

Claude wrote ahead before visiting Ordelia.

In Almyra he wouldn’t have. Back in Almyra, he’d cultivated a mercurial air—dropping in on folks unannounced, showing up at parties he hadn’t been invited to, and arriving earlier or later than he’d promised. It kept people on their toes, it gave him an idea of how far he could push before getting pushed _back_ , and also, yeah, it was a bit of fun.

But here in Fódlan he still didn’t quite have his footing. The few feasts and gatherings he’d been to so far had exhausted him: from the effort of keeping the dozens of new names straight in his head, and from remembering which fork went where and what way to pass the food, and from the constant, oh-so-careful effort of masking his accent. It was best to be careful, for now. Best to be polite.

So he sent out a note, _sorry I missed you at the festival, but I would love to visit_ —something along those lines. (He had one of Oswald’s savvier pages help him with the wording.)

The response from Ordelia was quick, and a touch formulaic, obviously writ by some page or another: _Ordelia always welcomes a visit from our friends in Riegan._

Seemed warm enough. Maybe the ruffled feathers at the party had just been a fluke.

So Claude packed a little gift, saddled a horse, and rode south—timing it carefully, so he’d arrive at midafternoon, not too early and not too late.

When he arrived at the Ordelia manor, nestled in a little mountainous vale thick with the smell of pine, he was quickly ushered in by a pair of guards. The terrace they brought Claude to left him _speechless_. He was well-used to fine sights: the palace at Samandi, the great canyons of Kopru, the painted deserts of the far east. But the long corridor here, with its sweeping arches and windows, spilled such a lovely and even dapple of sunlight across the stone floor, and the subtle curls and twists of the light’s shapes seemed to dance and shimmer. And those arches and windows overlooked a river valley in its full autumn color—and while Claude had seen plenty of the reds and oranges among the maples on Riegan’s lands, the bright-gold pine trees here were something new, wholly unfamiliar, scattered like bright gems all through the valley, and all the way up to the treeline of the mountains, where a few stray clouds drifted by.

At the far end of the corridor, Countess Ordelia sat at the head of a small table, poised like some jeweled bird. Apparently the way she’d dressed for the Horsebow Festival was just how she dressed every day. The countess looked him over, head to toe, with a swift hard nod that made Claude feel _horribly_ underdressed. “Where’s Oswald?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s—it’s just me. Sorry, I thought the letter had made that clear.”

A mix-up. Whoever had answered that letter hadn’t conveyed its sender properly. An honest mistake; Claude was still a new face here in Leicester—but the glower on Ordelia’s face made it obvious who _she_ was blaming.

Yet the tea was already laid out, and Ordelia didn’t wave him away, just sat there looming over the table. So, haltingly, Claude took a seat across from her, and waited a very uncomfortable minute for her to touch her tea, before he finally took a sip of his own.

“So what did you call yourself, again?” the countess asked.

“Claude. My name’s Claude.”

“Claude von Riegan, allegedly?”

“That’s what Duke Oswald tells me.” He tried a smile.

Ordelia took another stiff sip of her tea. “So where are you from, Claude von Riegan?”

“Oh, a little hamlet out east.” Claude purred the practiced answer easy as anything. “I was just as surprised as anyone when my crest manifested. They say these things can skip some generations—”

“I wasn’t asking your _lineage_. I was asking _where you’re from_.”

“Pardon, do you mean the town, or—?”

“I’ll make it easy for you. Did the Empire send you?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Because if they did,” Ordelia continued, “it’d behoove you to remind them that we paid our dues already, a hundred times over. If they’ve any ideas about any further recompense, they’ll be lucky if they get past the Airmid.”

Claude wracked his brain, trying to think of _anything_ he’d read in _Leicester: The Unabridged History_ that could make sense of what she was saying. “I think I’ve lost the plot, Countess Ordelia,” he confessed at last. “I’ve never been to the Empire in my life.”

Claude didn’t realize you could sip on your tea _ominously_ , until Ordelia did just then. He only barely suppressed a shudder.

Claude tried to make his face as honest as possible—and well, he _was_ being honest. He _hadn’t_ been to the Empire. Ordelia sniffed, took another sip of her tea, and said nothing.

That was fine. Claude was always happy to wait until the other person started talking. It was one of his oldest tricks, really. Stay silent and people would say anything, just to fill that silence. The tea really was excellent, he thought. He poured himself another glass.

And he finished it. All while he waited. The silence really was becoming too much, he thought at last, and Ordelia was so kindly _hosting_ him, after all, so at last Claude conceded. “I visited Margrave Edmund last week. Have you been to his lands before? His manor has lovely views of the ocean.”

Silence.

“Though I’m more into mountains, myself. I’ll bet you can see all the way to Mount Alasti from here on a clear day, right?”

Silence.

“I met the Margrave’s daughter while I was out there. Do you know her? Marianne? She’s so quiet, but she rides like no one I’ve ever seen. It’s almost like she can _talk_ to the horses.” Claude pushed his teacup from side to side. Kids, he thought, surely parents like talking about their kids: “Do you have any children, Countess Ordelia?”

Ordelia’s fingers turned bone-white, gripping her teacup. “And why should that be any concern of yours?”

“Oh, um. Just curious.”

Ordelia’s fingers were still clenched around that teacup. “You should leave.”

Claude balked, straining to remember anything, _anything_ he might’ve done to cause offense. He thought of everything his mother had taught him—had he held the teacup wrong? asked something rude? worn the wrong clothes?

But he couldn’t think of a thing, not a single thing, and Ordelia was still glaring. So with a hurried, “of course, sorry to trouble you, lovely tea, I’ll be on my way,” Claude left the Ordelia manor, just a bare twenty minutes after he’d arrived, with the uncomfortable feeling that he’d tripped over the tail of a sleeping wyvern. A wyvern he hadn’t even known _existed._

* * *

When Claude von Riegan showed up at Judith’s doorstep two weeks after the Horsebow Festival, unannounced and with no stated agenda, Judith had half a mind to turn him away. The Riegan line of succession was a concern of hers, certainly, but not her _only_ concern. She had her hands plenty full with the latest headache of a Galatean dispute, and with ensuring all her territory’s granaries were properly stocked before first frost. And Claude had made his choice of Edmund over herself all too clear. What use would they get from further parley?

But when she told the groundskeeper to turn him away, she came running back two hours later, saying that the young man seemed so _very_ insistent, he’d been standing by the front gates this whole time and had _refused_ to move, and are you _sure_ you want to send him away without a word?

Judith rolled her eyes. Better to have an heir apparent she could keep an eye on, she decided, and told the guards to let him in.

She only just had time to pour out two whiskeys in the sitting-room before Claude arrived. (She really wasn’t the tea-drinking type.) She nodded the boy’s escort away, and he, in turn, collapsed into a chair, frowning. “Well, you were right about Ordelia hating me,” he announced, without preamble. “Not sure the tea really helped, though.”

Straight to business. That eased Judith’s mood. She took a seat of her own, and sat back as Claude told her the whole sorry tale—the mix-up of whom Ordelia had been expecting to receive, and the colder-than-Faerghus reception he’d received thereafter. Judith winced when Claude got to, “she had all these questions about the Empire, she seemed to think I was in cahoots with them, or something? didn’t really make sense to me”—because, oh, _oh_. Of _course_ Ordelia had thought that. That whole Hrym affair had completely slipped Judith’s mind.

“Well, that was a misplay,” Judith muttered, when the story was finished.

“You knew this would happen?”

“No,” she answered honestly. “But maybe I should’ve. Ordelia’s got cause to be a little... suspicious of outsiders. They haven’t been the same ever since the empire invaded their territory, about ten years ago.”

“Sorry, _invaded?_ ” Claude’s eyes went wide. “I thought the Alliance hadn’t been at war with the Empire for decades by now?”

“Well, this wasn’t quite a war. More like a, hm, a local incident? an insurrection? Whatever it was, it was a real mess. Most of the Countess’s children were killed—all but one, I think.”

“ _What?_ ” That hadn’t been in _Leicester: The Unabridged History_ , not at all. “So what happened when the Alliance fought back?”

Judith raised a brow. “When who fought back?”

“The Alliance? Any of you guys? Isn’t Gloucester’s territory right next to Ordelia’s?”

“Gloucester? Lift a finger against the empire? That’s a laugh.”

“What about Daphnel?” Claude pressed, eyes narrowing. “Your lands are close too.”

Judith didn’t like his tone. She set down her glass with a little clatter. “You really aren’t from Leicester, boy, are you?”

“I never said I was. But I thought I knew what the word ‘alliance’ meant.”

He was being petulant. He was being ignorant. So why did Judith feel a sudden flush of shame? This was some sixteen-year-old con artist, she reminded herself. He couldn’t possibly give a damn about the Alliance. Why did she have to remind herself of that?

“Ordelia was caught aiding House Hrym,” Judith answered at length, “when they tried to defect from the Empire. Hrym was crushed. Reprisals were to be expected. What Ordelia did was Ordelia’s business. And besides, they didn’t _call_ for any aid. Probably the Empire had already taken a hostage before Ordelia had the chance.”

To Claude’s credit, he didn’t snap or shout. For a long while he didn’t say anything, taking a long sip of his drink, thinking, staring hard at nothing in particular.

“So why didn’t anyone else in the Alliance offer aid to Hrym as well?” he asked at last. “Or, if that didn’t make sense, why didn’t the rest of you try to talk Ordelia out of it?”

Judith resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “You really don’t understand how the Alliance works, do you, boy?”

“Then explain it to me,” he asked, without rancor. “I haven’t got anyplace else to be.” 

Judith stared. She had expected this boy to come asking for money, had expected him to finally show what a greedy little rat he was. This was so far off from anything she’d been expecting to discuss that she wasn’t sure what to say.

“If I’m going to be heir to Riegan, I’ll need to know this stuff anyway.”

“You haven’t been named heir to anything yet, boy,” Judith snapped.

“Well.” There was that smile again, the smile he wore so often, like he was getting away with something. “Well, in case I am. I’d like to know.”

Judith sighed. She hemmed and hawed a bit. But the truth was, she didn’t have anyplace to be, either. And she couldn’t think of any _harm_ in explaining the whole Hrym affair, and how this loose little confederation hung together, and when they would or wouldn’t be bound to aid each other. Better he hear it from her, rather than some high-minded little nationalist text that skimmed over all the practical bits.

So she poured out another glass of whiskey, and explained everything she knew.

* * *

Judith and Claude talked long into the night, long enough that they had to light the lamps, and long enough they finished most of the whiskey bottle. The kid was sharp: book-smart, certainly; he kept quoting back to her the dates of battles that she’d forgotten even existed. But he’d gleaned a bit savvy, too, during his short time in Riegan—he’d picked up on that strange unspoken tension between Lord Caius and the Kent clan, and he’d noticed the same _curious_ omissions in Gloucester’s most recent financial reports that she had, and he had a theory or two about Goneril’s absence from the last Roundtable meeting.

“Did Oswald teach you all this?” Judith asked at some point, because, Goddess, how could he have _possibly_ pieced all this together all on his own?

But Claude frowned and stared off to the side. “Oswald’s a little...” He groped for the right words. “He’s glad I’m alive. He’s glad I’m here. But back in Al—” Claude hesitated. “Where I’m from, he’d still be in mourning. No one would be asking him to hold a country together.”

Judith heard that little slip. She decided not to comment on it, for now.

“What’s he like?” Claude asked, after a moment. “Duke Oswald, I mean. When he’s not... like he is now.”

Judith swirled her glass in her hand, considering. There was an earnestness in Claude’s eyes that unnerved her, that made her choose her words with care.

“Well. He’s a man who knows what he wants. And for near two decades he knew how to twist the arm of every count, margrave, and little lordling to get _exactly_ that. And it’s hard to argue with the results; Fódlan’s Locket never would’ve happened without him breathing down Gloucester’s neck, for one.” She swirled her glass again; the ice cubes clinked. “He ran his family the same way, which seemed a touch hard, to me—but his son Godfrey seemed to tolerate it well enough.”

 _Tiana didn’t,_ Judith thought about saying, but she held her tongue.

Claude looked like he wanted to ask more. Judith waited. She watched his face flicker—then the moment passed, and he was wearing that easy smile of his again, the one that was a touch false. “So you mentioned some old feud between Caius and Riegan earlier—what was that about?”

Judith explained the root of _that_ little tiff, and more. By the time she’d told him everything else she could think of, her tongue felt fat, and the cold had crept in—she hadn’t been stoking the fireplace properly during their little chat.

“Come on, boy. Let’s get you to the guest quarters.” She hoisted herself off the chair, and watched Claude do the same—then she stifled a laugh as he staggered, only _barely_ staying on his feet. The boy probably wasn’t used to whiskey as strong as what she drank.

They walked together down the long corridor to the manor’s eastern wing. When she showed him his room, he stood in the door frame for a moment, leaning against it to steady himself. “Thanks, Judith,” he murmured warmly.

Judith didn’t bother correcting him for the proper title. “Sleep well, boy,” she said, waving a hand as she turned away, back toward her own quarters.

* * *

Then she didn’t see the brat for another two months.

It rankled Judith, somehow, struck her as ungrateful, even though he’d been perfectly gracious and attentive when he’d been here, and even though he hadn’t promised her a thing in return. She tapped her spies in Riegan, asking them what had happened to the little heir. They wrote back a few weeks later, much puzzled themselves. Apparently he wasn’t hanging around Riegan, either. Rumor said he’d gone to Edmund territory, though Duke Oswald was vague when pressed on the matter. But then, Oswald was often vague, these days.

Maybe the whole visit to Ordelia had just been a lark, Judith thought. This Claude boy is nosy, and curious, but still after Edmund’s money. Well. Judith could work around that. Her last letter to Oswald, begging him to reconsider adopting the boy, had gone unanswered, so she’d just have to deal with things as they were.

She’d just about put the boy out of her mind entirely when a little missive arrived, signed Claude von Riegan and bound with a crescent-moon seal—

 _I think you should attend the next Roundtable,_ was all it said.

She turned it over twice, looking for something else. Wondered briefly, absurdly, whether he’d writ the rest of it in invisible ink, or something childish like that. The sort of thing Tiana might’ve done, she thought, jarringly. (Tiana is dead, she reminded herself.)

Then she snorted and threw the it in the trash. If Claude wanted something from her, he’d have to give _her_ something first, for a change.

But then another letter came—this one wholly unmarked, tied together with a _truly_ excessive amount of twine, no seal, nothing on it but her name.

When she managed to wrest the string apart, out fell two pieces of paper:

One was a letter addressed to Count Gloucester, with a seal that had already been broken. Judith stared at it for only a half-moment of restraint, before she decided—well, it was already _here_ , no one could blame her if she read the blasted thing. _She_ hadn’t broken the seal.

The signature on the letter was certainly eyebrow-raising—Randolph von Bergliez, one of the Empire’s ministers of war, a man no one in the Alliance should have had much cause to speak with—and the message itself, even moreso. 

_We thank you for your generous donation of troops to assist the fortification of our southern front. I assure you the friendship between our houses shall hold strong in your own time of need..._

Judith turned the paper over a few times in mute astonishment. Gloucester’s coziness with the empire was well-known, but straight-up _loaning_ them troops for an indeterminate time period, for an indeterminate cause, was a step too far, even by the Alliance’s lax standards.

Which was when Judith remembered there was more. She picked up the second letter off of the desk where it had fallen, unfurled it, and found only a single sentence:

_Something to keep in mind._

It was unsigned, but she recognized the handwriting from the day before.

How had the boy gotten his _hands_ on something that so clearly should’ve been burned after reading? she thought wonderingly.

She turned the letter over in her hand again. Well.

So she had some dirt on Gloucester, and now the boy wanted her to go to the next Roundtable meeting. _Why_ he wanted that, Judith hadn’t the faintest—while technically any noble could _attend_ Roundtable, only the Five could actually vote, and nonvoting members were rather strongly discouraged from speaking at all.

Maybe the boy had read this all wrong. Maybe he thought Judith’s voice carried more weight than it actually did; maybe he’d misunderstood the workings of the Roundtable entirely.

But then she turned the first letter over in her hands again, the incredible, impossible letter, and, well. She didn’t think this kid misunderstood much of anything.

Dangerous. _Interesting._ But dangerous.

She had to sort out some business in Derdriu anyway, she reasoned to herself, slowly. Couldn’t be any harm in simply showing her face at the meeting. Unlike Oswald, she still had her wits about her. If Claude was trying to play her, well—maybe she could make it work to her own benefit, too.

* * *

For the first half of the day, Judith only barely managed to stay awake. Goddess, she’d forgotten how tedious these meetings could get—Edmund kept harping on about _well how will we_ fund _that_ for every damn little thing, Gloucester got all tetchy about some minor point-of-order that didn’t matter, and Oswald von Riegan, who still didn’t seem quite himself, kept spacing out and needing things repeated for him. It had been a blessing, in a way, losing her seat at the high table. It spared her the tedium of sitting through this fiasco every few months.

A blessing that she was presently squandering.

Claude was there, of course—seated across the room from her, outside the central circle, next to some half-dozen other desultory spectators. She’d tried to catch his eye a few times, but his attention was fixed firmly on the proceedings, poised and rapt as though he were watching an archery target.

At last, around midday, Margrave Edmund cleared his throat: “I have a new proposal for strengthening the Alliance.”

Claude coughed. A cue if there ever was one. Judith tilted her head to listen better.

“Fódlan’s Locket has been a great success,” Edmund continued. “There hasn’t been a hint of an invasion from Almyra more than a year, and it’s held strong against several assaults prior to that. I propose we develop a similar set of fortifications in the west,” Edmund continued, “so that our allies there can feel similarly secure.”

Nothing like this had even been _hinted_ at, in the docket sent out in advance. The table sat silent for a long moment.

“Could we really do that?” Countess Ordelia asked, her voice strangely thin. “Our relationship with the Empire’s a fair bit different than with Almyra, isn’t it? They aren’t foreign invaders to be kept out entirely. We shouldn’t do anything to... antagonize them.”

“Well, good fences make good neighbors,” Duke Goneril said, bullish. “If they take issue with our defenses, all the more reason to build.”

“Mighty words for someone whose lands lie so far from the Airmid,” Ordelia answered coolly.

Edmund cleared his throat. “If the idea of some eminently reasonable fortifications annoys them, I imagine the access they’ll gain to textiles and spices from Sreng should be more than enough to assuage them.”

It took a beat for everyone to gather Edmund’s meaning.

“So you finally managed to get Sreng to open their ports to you, eh?” Goneril cried. “You sly dog. How’d you manage that? I thought they were as likely to shoot an emissary as they were to say hello.”

“I had some assistance in the most recent round of negotiations,” Edmund answered, with a small smile.

Judith shot a look like fire across the room at Claude. _Assistance?_ What sort of assistance had finally cracked the shell of stubborn, stolid _Sreng?_

“The first set of shipments should be arriving at the end of this month,” Edmund continued. “And of course our merchants would be perfectly happy to export those bounties westward.”

Ordelia looked thoughtful. “And of course better fortifications only make sense, if more merchants will be passing through. It’s only to help ensure the wares against bandits, we could say.”

“No, Countess Ordelia, don’t surrender the point,” Count Gloucester cut in, looking affronted. “The Empire has been a perfectly gracious neighbor; a comparison between them and Almyra is borderline insulting. The Locket was built at enormous expense—we cannot be repeating that for mere _imagined_ threats. And Gloucester, for one, hasn’t the troops to spare to staff both the Locket and this new _thing_.”

Ordelia’s eyes flickered between Edmund and Gloucester. They were hunted, haunted, so unlike the staunch Countess Ordelia that Judith knew.

In her mind, Judith heard an echo of Claude’s voice: _So what happened when the Alliance fought back?_ And she wondered, uneasily, how exactly Ordelia’s kids had died, how bad that invasion had really been. They’d always been so _quiet_ about the damn thing, but, well. Ordelia’s eyes didn’t lie.

But the maddening thing about the Roundtable was that everything had to be unanimous. Which meant nothing got done, which was by design. Count Gloucester was grinning, now, because he knew that, because he knew that he alone was enough to throw this whole thing in the gutter.

Judith felt Claude’s eyes press on her from across the room.

For a moment she considered. It was a very near thing. She still wasn’t sure what to make of Claude, this infuriating, charming, unknowable boy-from-nowhere. She still wasn’t sure if there was some other trick behind this little scheme, something that would prove ruinous for the Alliance in the end (she didn’t think so; she couldn’t see how; she only saw the opposite: all the vulture-lordlings circling Ordelia now would be chastened, and the whole Alliance could only be stronger for it).

And she wasn’t sure why, but when she met Claude’s eyes across the room, for a moment, they reminded her of an old ritual, an old vow, blood and earth and an almost-forgotten moonlit night.

So at last, she sat up straight and cleared her throat, if only to wipe the smug smile off of Gloucester’s face, and yeah, because the kid has grown on her:

“Maybe if you called back all the men you’re oh-so-helpfully letting the Empire borrow in Bergliez, then there wouldn’t be any problem staffing the new fortress.”

Five pairs of eyes shot toward Judith, indignant.

She shrugged airily. “Ah, I must’ve spoken out of turn. Apologies.”

But of course, she was nothing like apologetic. And the damage was already done. Four pairs of eyes glared now at Count Gloucester, who flushed terribly, stammering something incomprehensible about a misunderstanding, about friendly relations with some of the Adrestrian lords, how of course he’d never _betray_ the Alliance, this wasn’t a breach of the treaty _technically_ , if you read the provision on foreign aid carefully enough—

While he embarrassed himself, Judith stole a quick sideways glance at Claude—who was very pointedly _not_ looking at her, but he couldn’t hide the little grin dancing at the corners of his lips.

There were further deliberations after that, of course, but the final tally was predictable as the striking of a metronome. Edmund called the vote to order, saying aye. Then there was an aye from Riegan, the house where the idea had _actually_ been born. Goneril, right after, because Goneril could be trusted to side with Riegan in just about anything. And now Gloucester couldn’t possibly vote against the plan without calling his house’s loyalty into question—so his aye, as miserable and ragged as it was, still counted.

Ordelia looked between all the lords, ponderous. She cast Claude a tentative, hopeful little smile. And then she said the final aye.

* * *

Judith didn’t bother trying to find Claude afterward. She figured he would find her himself, in due time.

And sure enough, when she went to hitch up her horse after dinner—the forest path still misty from the recent rain, the ground heavy and damp beneath her feet—he was standing right there by the stable, fiddling with some little wooden puzzle-toy and whistling a little tune.

“Boy,” she said, “I better not have just sold the Alliance down the river.”

“Still so suspicious!” Claude said with a laugh. “I promise, I haven’t done anything that’s not for the Alliance’s own good. And wasn’t the Margrave ever so persuasive?”

Judith rolled her eyes good-naturedly. She expected him to crow on a bit more—hint at how he’d managed to get a hold of that Gloucester letter, maybe, or just wax poetic about the tidiness of his little scheme—but his eyes suddenly looked uncertain. He’d put the toy away and now was wringing his hands a bit. Odd.

She shrugged, and strode to the far wall of the stable, moving to lift her saddle off the high rack where she’d placed it—

“You did splendidly, by the way,” Claude said at last, voice low. “Tiana was right when she said I could trust you.”

She nearly dropped the saddle straight onto her foot. The impossible name. The impossible _person._

It made sense. It made so much sense, and the only reason she hadn’t seen it was because of how impossible it was—how _sentimental_ it was. Decades without a word; she _had_ to have been dead.

But the look on Claude’s face, when he really _wanted_ something from you? it looked so much like Tiana’s. And the way he shot his bow in the tournament, down to that little twirling flourish he did with his arrow? that was all Tiana. That little trick with the letter was _precisely_ the sort of thing she would’ve done. And Goddess, even the eyes. He had her eyes; how hadn’t she noticed before?

It was short of proof, just short of proof. But still—

“You know I have questions,” Judith said, keeping her voice carefully level.

“Of course. But shh, not here. C’mon, let’s go on a little walk, yeah?”

He practically bounded away before she could answer, slipping into the trees beside the stable, and then disappearing into the forest from there. She stared after him a moment. If he really was _Tiana’s_ kid, and they had been like sisters, would it be presumptuous to think of him as...? and, well, Goddess above, it wasn’t like Tiana was here to tell her otherwise, was she?

And so, boots squelching in the mud, picking her way over some fallen logs, she went into the forest, to follow her infuriating, charming, new little nephew.

**Author's Note:**

> This story's title comes from the [James Dickey poem](https://retrieverman.net/2016/12/11/deer-among-cattle-by-james-dickey/) of the same name, which I also find to be a very beautifully apt poem for Claude in general.
> 
> Further making-of notes are [on Dreamwidth](https://queenlua.dreamwidth.org/286143.html), for any curious souls.
> 
> Feel free to give me a shout on Tumblr (queenlua@) or Twitter (greatqueenlua@); I love chatting with fandom folks.


End file.
